I am prompted today with a bit of self-consciousness in hand.
Joining a 30-day blog challenge feels a bit unnatural to me. I typically hate writing prompts and feel the full force of expectation breathing down my neck as I type these words.
And then I remember, this is all just words, right?
I know how to do this.
I settle in with the thought of how I will unfold in the next thirty days. Should I give myself an activity to find a daily theme? Should I just word vomit on the page to empty out like how I used to do my daily “Morning Pages” from Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way? Should I plan everything out, tight-fisted and controlled? Should I just show up to the page to see what can be revealed?
I think to myself- Is this for me or for an audience? What is it that I truly want to express? In this place of expression, am I extracting the essence of what I want to say?
Do I have to say it all?
Do I have to say it all?
I consider, quietly, the walks I typically take in the woods and how often I feel torn to capture or release the beauty around me. We must inhale the world around us in order to awaken the one within. That’s my approach, anyway.
I think of that struggle when I make space for these words.
Am I approaching with trap in hand? Bait? A lure for myself and others?
Am I revealing too much in saying just that?
I take myself to the shower to anoint my feet with rose oil and think upon what I have to say, and if what I have to say is what I want to say.
I exfoliate and spread this expensive drop of oil upon my feet, thinking to myself how long it took for me to count myself deserving of this ritual of self-care. How long it took me to embrace offering myself a sacred moment of worthiness.
As I lather my feet, I consider the path that they have taken me on. How they have stood up for themselves in the face of adversity. How they have trodden a worn path and followed in other’s footsteps in order to finally find the rough, unexplored terrain of soul that they have been dying to dig their toes into.
It only took forty years, is all.
What will the next forty promise?
I circle back.
Realize I am on this page wondering – why am I talking about my feet? Why am I talking about my path? Why am I talking at all about the purpose of words and the place where souls meet?
And I remember, any and all who have reached out and have offered me the kindness of remembering myself. Any and all who have seen that my voice is important, even when it wavers. Any and all who have pointed the light on what I have to say and have exchanged a “thank you” for me being able to articulate what their heart has longed to share. I replace apprehension with gratitude.
I am refilled.
I am humbled that Spirit works through me in this way. I am humbled that there can be purpose spun into gold from the dark shadows of the past, and in that spinning, a fine, Divine thread can be carried from my heart to others.
I know not what tomorrow holds. Who knows what the next prompt will be. It may be a quiet listening to the breaking open of morning to find the pieces. To find the words. To find the thread.
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